Author's Note: Once again, I do not own Halo or Red vs. Blue. The OC, however, is all mine.
Chapter 2: Reassigned Already!?
154 was quick about getting to the commander's office. And by quick, I mean "taking the straightest possible path up three floors to the commander's office, even if it meant body-checking three marines and an innocent water cooler." He arrived outside the oak door of the commander's office, and apparently the commander heard him, because as soon as he stopped the commander said "enter". So 154 entered.
The commander turned out to be a gaunt, grey-haired man in his mid-fifties. He was wearing a pristine white UNSCMC commander's uniform, which contrasted greatly with 154's scorched, icy, damaged, etc. Mk.6 VI/S armor.
"SPARTAN-154-" The commander began. However, that didn't last long before Spade interrupted.
"Call me Al." 154 stated bluntly.
"Alright, Al. First of all, glad you're back."
"Good to be back, sir." Spade stated bluntly.
"Now; onward to your orders."
"That didn't take very long. Where am I off to, commander?" The eager look from 154 unnerved the Commander slightly, but he continued on anyways. Regardless, he coughed into his hand when he said it.
"Hlahbloodgulchlah!"
"What?"
"I said…" He said the same thing, only covered with a harder cough.
"Should I get you a throat lozenge or something, sir? That cough sounds awful." Spade's voice was dripping with sarcasm. Despite this, the commander reiterated his orders the same way every time, at least three times, until 154 threatened to put a bullet past his head with his Magnum.
"Blood Gulch." The commander stated somewhat solemly. 154's eyes partway lit up.
"Oh God yes." The commander's head shot up. "Wait… You mean you actually WANT to go to Blood Gulch!?"
"Well… Why not?" Spade stated bluntly.
"Good point. Well, you're job there is simple enough. I want you to get all of the soldiers in that damned canyon to head back to our base at Sidewinder. They will become your new squad."
"Okay."
"That's all you have to say? 'Okay?' No bawling, crying?"
"Nope."
"Not even a whimper?"
"When do I leave?"
"Pelican takes off in two hours, you might want to get your armor fixed in that time span." Commander said.
"Oookay. Thanks for the assignment." Spade stood up and walked out of the commander's office. Once the oak door swung shut, the commander cradled his head in his hands.
"God help that kid."
Engineering
154 stepped into the room. Immediately his eyes started watering; the whole room reeked of welding fumes and other stuff. Flip music blared from a stack of monitors and a stereo system in the corner. Several damaged or totaled Warthogs were scattered around the room.
One of the workers approached 154. He was wearing a pair of welding goggles and yelled at the top of his lungs when he spoke.
"COMMAND ALREADY SENT DOWN THE CALL, SARGE! REMOVE YOUR ARMOR AND LEAVE IT WITH US, WE'LL HAVE IT FIXED BY THE TIME YOU HAVE TO LEAVE!" He yelled.
"Great…" The Sergeant Major lowered his head and sighed.
"WHAT?" The engineer yelled back, but Spade was already gone.
Two hours later, when Spade returned wearing his black jumpsuit and a commandeered Gunnery Sergeant's cap, the war-weathered SPARTAN had expected a patchy, unstable repair that looked as though it would barely hold against a dust mite, let alone a Covenant legion. Yet, when he entered the room, the Flip music he had heard before had disappeared. Most of the clutter in the workspace had been moved to the sides or out of the room altogether. The fumes had been vented. A large cluster of engineers, marines and mechanics all gathered in the center of the room as, almost ceremoniously, a mechanic walked away from an odd-looking machine resembling the English wheel from Hell, placed a heavy sheet of armor onto the suit and meticulously spot-welded it into place. Once he was done, he finished the job by re-painting the armor entirely white with brown shoulders and the infamous Ace of Spades on the right shoulder. One of the marines turned and beckoned Spade to his position. As Spade arrived, the mechanics finished wrapping heavy chains tied to two Warthog jacks, both of which were up on lifts in the middle of the room. When the last chain was connected, the mechanic gave the thumbs up to two of the drivers, who nodded in return and revved the engines. The Warthogs struggled with the surprisingly heavy armor, engines whining as the jacks pulled the armor upright and stood it up. The stiff, locked limbs finally surrendered to gravity and dropped to the floor.
"We told you we'd have it done." The mechanic smirked after his statement, and Spade clapped the man on the shoulder before pulling on the separate components of the armor and finally removing the hat and tossing it to the crowd. As the helmet locked onto the SPARTAN's head, LEDs on the armor lit up and the HUD flickered to life. The armor came online not a moment too soon, as the infamous pager spoke once again.
"SPARTAN-154, please report to the landing area. Repeat, SPARTAN-154 to the landing area."
"Wish me luck, guys." Spade said as he exited the open area to a chorus of calls of "GOOD LUCK, SPADE!"